


Cheap thrills and a breakfast full of white lines

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [10]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Coming Out, Gun Kink, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Joseph Kavinsky, POV Second Person, Russian Roulette, Suicide Attempt, in the weirdest way possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: "Do you remember the first time we did this?" he asks, because memory fascinates him, knowing for a fact that most of it is fabricated becauseheis.How could you forget? It was the day that made you who you are today. And him, too.





	Cheap thrills and a breakfast full of white lines

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 10 "Gun Play" at Kinktober.
> 
> Well, this is embarrassing. I accidentally copied the wrong file with the wrong ending into this and only noticed later. *crawls back into hermit cave, never to be seen again* Which, err, doesn't necessarily make it much better. The mood here is all over the place and incoherent at times. I shouldn't be allowed to write things.

You have an assortment of guns around you that you clean at irregular intervals, out of habit. They don't need cleaning – they don't even need their magazines replaced because their magazines never empty (you know how to remove design flaws, after all) – but it's relaxing to go through the motions. You've been taking apart firearms and putting them back together by the time you were ten, so this is muscle memory. You just like to keep your hands occupied. 

You've just finished reassembling Dream Killer and started polishing her when a hand alights on your shoulder.

It takes no time at all for you to turn around, release the safety and press the barrel into the tense underside of Proko's chin. The boy has a jaw like a nutcracker – not quite as square but equally as hard.

"You're jumpy," he comments, eyes just a little wide in his otherwise suspiciously impassive face. His grip has tightened on your shoulder. You watch his pulse pump against the gun. "What's up?"

"Don't sneak up on me," you say. He should have known better. 

"Not my fault you were zoning out. Should I toot a horn next time I enter a room?"

"How about you wear a bell?"

You drag the muzzle down his throat then across it, where you imagine a snug collar to sit, complete with a little round chiming ball to announce his presence.

His head tips back readily as you follow the line of his neck to his chin and caress his cheek with the slide. 

Perhaps soothed by the cool metal against his heated skin, his eyes flutter shut, as if there wasn't any danger of you blowing his brains out, accidentally or otherwise.

His lack of fear is a huge turn-on.

"Do you remember the first time we did this?" he asks, because memory fascinates him, knowing for a fact that most of it is fabricated because _he_ is.

"Yeah," is all you manage in answer, before his tongue snakes out and licks your gun from grip to muzzle. It sears across your knuckles. But that has nothing on the way of him swallowing Dream Killer down as far as she would go.

How could you forget? It was the day that made you who you are today. And him, too.

With a deep-seated and very audible groan, you twitch your finger back and rest it against the trigger guard. If he continues to excite you like that, you won't be able to guarantee for anything. And you'd rather it wouldn't end in digging holes somewhere in your backyard again.

Sure, you could switch the safety back on, but so could he and currently, his thumb is keeping that from happening.

Fuck, but this is making you hard.

If his mouth wasn't busy servicing your gun, you'd be shoving your tongue so far down his throat he'd be choking on that instead. But his hands are keeping you right there, right where he can take in the barrel until he chokes on the taste, then slides back up again, sucking hard and boring his gaze into yours as if trying to make it come out the other side.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, with him bobbing up and down in practiced motions and his eyes glued to yours, you can almost feel his mouth on your dick. It's glorious, even if it's imagined.

And you're _good_ at imagining things.

Proko is the living proof of that.

The first time you played around with your gun, you were seriously wasted. Like way out of your mind. You'd just lost to Lynch in a street race and worse than that, he was still bent on ignoring you. How you hated him for being so oblivious, for not noticing all that you were offering.

Proko didn't know then either, but at least _he_ was always around, always up for anything. Even when you brought up your chrome lady. It wasn't Dream Killer back then, but a colt without the infinite ammo – as if that were a thing you still had to unlock, as in a video game. 

In any case, it was perfect for what you had in mind.

"Isn't she a beauty?" you asked, offering her up to him because you were bored and you wanted to see how he'd react.

"Fuck, K," he said, but accepted her, with only a touch of hesitation. He wanted to be so tough in front of you, the sweet boy, but the way he held her in both palms told you he'd never taken control of a weapon before in his life. "Where'd you get this?"

"If you really wanna know, I'll tell you." You wiggled your fingers at him, indicating you wanted your weapon back. "After a little game."

He handed it over reluctantly, as if he'd grown to like the heft of it in his grip. Or perhaps because he was wary of the dangerous things it was whispering in his ears, but willing to listen anyway.

It had certainly been whispering in yours, and you approved of her ideas.

You released the cylinder and cupped your hand under it, letting the bullets drop into your palm like candy. They clinked like chimes. Proko was giggling weakly, which made you notice how he was echoing your own ominous laughter. You were chuckling darkly as you lined up five bullets between you. The sixth went back into the chamber. The cylinder went click, then whirred as you spun it around.

"Last one standing gets all the answers," you said, holding the gun to your temple. Proko visibly tensed, probably aware he was about to witness your suicide. Without further ado, you pulled the trigger.

And empty click; nothing happened. Except that your pulse sped up. A sign that you were still alive.

"God, so boring," you said with disdain. Chances weren't in your favor but give it some time. You were just getting started.

You flung the colt to him and he caught it rather awkwardly, breathing unsteadily but wanting to appear as though he was used to handling firearms while at the same time not approving of them.

"Your turn."

"Your rules make no sense."

You paid him no heed in favor of letting him do his thing, and also in favor of cutting up some coke, two lines for you, and one for him, if he chose to use it. If not, all the more for you. It's nothing that would ever go to waste in your household.

That first line went through you like lightning, and the best part? He'd spun the chamber around, sending the bullet inside on an odyssey as he waited for it to come to a halt.

When it did, he held the barrel to his temple bravely, eyes scrunched tight. You licked the mirror in front of you in your excitement.

The gun clicked hollow. His breath was shaky with relief.

So boring. You did mention that, right?

You took the gun from him, looked at it for a weighty moment, then pointed it at your head – without spinning the chamber again.

Proko's face was alarmed but admiring, and you'd have laughed at it if the situation didn't have you in knots as well. This could finally be it, the moment you'd been waiting for your entire life. You didn't think it would be, however, knowing your damn luck.

Again, the trigger didn't catch, as predicted. Now you were free to laugh, so you did, loudly, hysterically, befitting the high you were riding.

Proko, not wanting to be outdone by you, or perhaps more accurately: wanting to prove himself to you, eased the revolver from your grip. He was grinning and laughing weakly, but his hand was trembling as he raised the gun to his own head. 

Could he really be as brave as you?

His gulp was audible when he pulled the trigger, a lot louder than the clicking of the empty chamber. Then, he laughed weakly in his triumph, growing bolder with the adrenaline of it.

You did this both for another turn, sweating and laughing and tense, nudging each other closer to that final ledge, expecting every shot to be the last, but not believing in that outcome at the same time. Somehow, through sheer dumb luck, you both managed to make it through the ever decreasing odds.

Your third would put an end to that, however, and to you. There was one bullet in a barrel of six, and five shots had been fired. That was math you could do.

You were ready. You had nothing to atone for, or nothing you'd _want_ to atone for.

So, this was it then, this was your last good-bye. Good riddance and all.

You inhaled deeply as you pressed the muzzle against your temple. Proko's fingers dug into your knees and you didn't know if it was from eagerness to see you go through with it, or from a private battle about whether or not to stop you yet.

You grinned at him, making sure he'd know it was all right, you chose this, no matter the chemical state of your mind at the time. You were pleased, actually, knowing it would be over soon.

Proko's gaze was fixed on you, unable to give you even that much privacy, not that you minded it. For some reason, it made you happy that he was here to witness your end. Part of you had always been a performer, after all.

With your pulse throbbing in your temples, about to perforate them cleanly, a reckless impulse took hold of you. It was now or never after all. 

Your free hand snaked into Proko's hair and pulled him towards you. Your lips met, electrifying your spine, a sensation much purer than your purest high, than anything you could have dreamed up even.

Proko felt so good against you then, like an epiphany, like excruciating sweetness or saccharine agony, like breathing freely in a way you'd never done before.

For the first time in your miserable life, you'd actually felt blissfully happy, knowing that this would be your last memory, knowing you'd got away with it, knowing there would be no more 'you' after this. 

A ragged exhale clawed itself out of your throat, but before it could reach the end, you pulled the trigger. You wanted to die with his lips on your own.

But you didn't. You didn't fucking die.

Couldn't even kill yourself right.

You found yourself knocked on your back, fingertips still curled around your colt, head tipped back against the dusty floorboards, body shaking with hysterical laughter, as if the bullet had done more damage than simply graze you. For a handful of deaf moments, you'd thought this was it, you were finally dead, finally free of this shit.

But your audience with St Pete was still out. Perhaps the old guy was too busy elsewhere, thanks a fucking lot.

Blood was trickling down your temple to your chin.

The inside of your chest felt raw and you gripped the gun tightly, uselessly pulling the trigger. The only live bullet that had been in it was used to blow a hole into the corner of the room.

You'd just kissed your best friend and he'd pushed you off and now you had to live with knowing what you did. What a crash that was.

Death would have been the cleaner way out, at least then you wouldn't have to face the shame of it.

You ripped yourself upright to search for the other bullets, still laughing but also torn apart inside. You should have pocketed them. But you didn't think you'd need more than one. By your equation, it would have been him or you. Either way, a single bullet should have satisfied that particular itch.

But it didn't, and now Prokopenko must think you were gay or something. Worse, that you were gay for him.

He made a grab for your gun when he noticed what you were up to.

"Let go," you said, trying to extract it from his white-knuckled grip.

He shook his head, wide-eyed, gray-faced, still too stunned to form any words. He must have been working through his disgust for you.

You couldn't blame him.

But you also couldn't look him in the eye. You let him have the gun. He stumbled backwards when you suddenly released it.

"Forget this ever happened," you told him and scrubbed your hands through your bloody face. Shit. _Not such a touch guy now, are you?_

"You're still my friend," Proko said, with a lot of hesitation. He also couldn't look you in the eye. Of course he'd be recalibrating what he thought of you. "This changes nothing."

"I said this never happened."

"K, I can't forget this."

"Don't." You were sorry already, and if you could go back in time to undo it, you would... you would definitely do it again, but you'd also make sure you wouldn't survive this. A kiss of death. That's cute, actually.

He was shaking his head again, eyes unfocused and wild. "You nearly blew your brains out in front of me while I stood by and watched. What the fuck is wrong with me?" 

His voice sounded tragic, in need of some reassurance you couldn't give. You let him freak out.

You don't remember much after that, other than wanting to kill yourself and ending up with killing him instead.

He wouldn't leave your side, even as you insisted he leave, so you could dissolve in self-pity undisturbed. Instead, he hunkered down and suggested you get drunk some more, to forget all this.

Sweet oblivion was you favorite destination, so no objections there.

Perhaps he'd sensed that you'd try to finish what you'd started. You still had five bullets over, after all, and you'd need only one this time, with him gone and no one to stop you.

But you'd laid out your cards too soon with your own little freak-out earlier.

That's why he wouldn't leave your side. No matter that you'd kissed him and outed yourself as a faggot, he was still there for you and wanted to make sure you survived the night.

How sweet of him.

Too bad _he_ didn't survive the night. All because you wanted to make him forget. Because you thought he couldn't like you like that, nor that you'd want him to.

Such a dumb thing, really. What would he have done? Blab about it to the rest of the crew? He'd have dashed it to pieces, because no way they'd want anything to do with you once they knew what you were. If they believed him.

Even if they didn't, he'd lose his place among you and the privilege it afforded him.

And now you're saddled with a copy, one that _does_ like you like that and is not afraid to die again – for you, for fun, for no cause at all.

"I'm fucking high as a kite, man," he'd laughed, because that was your design. To get high and to forget. "I wanna do it again."

"Not enough of dying for one day, huh?"

"And this time, I get to kiss _you._ " His speech was slurred, but his meaning unmistakable.

Your eyes slid over to him, knife-like. If you'd had one you'd have pressed it beneath his jaw. "Don't fuck around, asshole."

"'m not. I really wanna. Unless you're chicken."

"You calling me a chicken?"

He was sprawled on the floor, with his head propped against the sofa. "Mh-hmm," he hummed and his fingers around your elbows tugged you closer.

You didn't believe he'd want this if he were sober, but you weren't gonna spurn him either. He wouldn't remember any of this. Your little miracle drug would make sure of that.

It also made him overdose on it before you could kiss him again. Which was all pretty traumatic, really, with him twitching and choking and ruining the goddamn mood. By the time you realized what was happening – that he wasn't pulling your leg – you had another massive freak-out. Your head wasn't on straight. And it wouldn't be forever after. His death fucked you up good, more than you'd already been, and a vague guilt haunts you because you couldn't save him.

But that guilt is tampered by the one good thing coming out of this: you can kiss him however much you want now, with no worry about who he might tell or what he might think. He thinks what you what him to think.

Come morning, you'd been doing lines off his body – his resurrected, newly minted body. In your panic, you thought it would be easier to deal with a living Proko copy than with the reality of the situation. For a while you even forgot the real Proko was dead. Thinking about it would only give you nightmares.

You still have those, but that's a different story.

You inhale deeply, and your trigger finger itches to end this fake existence's life. He might appear to want you, appear to love you even, but you created him like that. In a way, it disgusts you how easy it is with him. The original would never have looked at you with interest, would never have sucked down your gun like it was nothing, would never have been biting your knuckles to get your dick hard.

Wouldn't have done anything you asked – anything you so much as hinted at.

What disgusts you even more is that it's all your own doing, that you wanted him to want you so bad you made him like that, after the original expired.

Such a soft word, expired. As if he'd just gone bad, and all you needed to do was replace him with an upgrade. So you did, and dreamed yourself a friend who wouldn't ever judge you. 

He loves you now, unconditionally, in whatever way you want. It's cheap, but it's also a relief. It may not be real, but what do you care about reality? You're living the dream, in more ways than one. 

He's still so real to you, even if he's not the same Proko you kissed that night, such an expert forgery even you have trouble sometimes remembering that he's a fake – an extrapolation of what he used to be, sure, but you like what he's become. 

Because whatever he feels for you is not faked, even if he is; it's real enough for him. As real as he is. At least, you keep telling yourself that.

If only you didn't know better.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Not So Hollywood" by Throw the Fight.


End file.
